


Labyrinthe

by addict_with_a_pen



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: IKEA, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, One Shot, good omens - Freeform, lost in ikea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-10 22:10:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20142799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addict_with_a_pen/pseuds/addict_with_a_pen
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley get lost in IKEA





	Labyrinthe

“You just  _ had  _ to get started with Pinterest, didn’t you?” Crowley said irritably, scuffing his foot along the edge of a section of carpet. “You just  _ couldn’t help yourself,  _ and it wasn’t bad enough that you had to come to this  _ labyrinthe  _ of a furniture store, no, you had to drag ME along, too!” He finished this rant with a disdainful sniff, and gazed up at the harsh, fluorescent lights above them.

“Oh, shut up, would you?” cried Aziraphale wretchedly. “You’re not helping any, you cynical old thing.” 

Crowley made a face, muttering under his breath.

The pair stared around at the vast warehouse expanding all around them, seemingly endless. Large swaths of various carpeted, wooden, tiled, and even a few brick-lined floors were the base for which displays of furniture for indoor, outdoor, and whatever you would call those enclosed-patio things that were neither indoor nor outdoor livingspaces. Aziraphale and Crowley were currently standing in a children’s bedroom display, Aziraphale standing near a large, pastel toybox and Crowley lounging on the bottom of a bunkbed with Thomas the Tank Engine sheets.

They were lost in IKEA.

Aziraphale gave a little groan of dispair. “I’m  _ sorry,  _ it just looked so  _ cute,  _ it was perfect for the shop, I thought, and the sofas we have are in such a state of disrepair, I thought it was about time to get some new furniture…” 

Crowley snorted. “‘State of disrepair,’ yeah, alright. Just miracle it better! For somebody’s  _ sake,  _ angel!” 

Aziraphale shot him a look, and the disgruntled demon quieted.

Then he gave a start, and rounded on him.

“Now wait just a  _ single blasted minute,”  _ Aziraphale said indignantly. “Didn’t you  _ invent  _ IKEA??” 

Crowley froze where he was, leaning against the post of the bunkbed. He pressed his lips together and avoided making eye contact with Aziraphale through his sunglasses as his face grew hot.

He didn’t answer, because Crowley had, in fact, invented IKEA, and about half of the product names.

Why did every single one of his demonic inventions come back to bite him in the arse?

Aziraphale stared daggers at the demon, who just looked at the floor. 

“Why don’t we just ask someone?” mumbled Crowley finally. 

Aziraphale gazed around. There was no one in sight. 

“I suppose we’ll have to keep wandering until we come across someone,” he said resignedly. “Come on.”

He pulled at his bowtie, checked it in a small mirror set on a dresser, and looked at Crowley expectantly.

The demon sighed and took his position at the angel’s side, the various light fixtures casting mixed glows upon his face and reflecting in his sunglasses.

The pair set off, keeping an eye out for a flash of yellow shirt that would signify the presence of the elusive IKEA Store Employee prowling its natural habitat. 

They walked in silence for a while, side by side, navigating through the different biomes containing assorted furniture and household items. Crowley was lost in thought, his mind drifting as aimlessly as his path through the displays. As usual, it gravitated towards Aziraphale. 

He went over the events of the past six thousand years, recalling occasions the two of them had gotten themselves into similar spots of trivial yet still irksome situations. The time Aziraphale had gotten himself captured during revolutionary France because he had wanted some crêpes; when Crowley had gotten drunk in Chicago in the 1920s and accidentally ticked off a mob boss; the time both of them had gone for a stroll at a parade in Ancient Rome and Aziraphale removed a laurel wreath from a statue to offer it to Crowley, only to discover that it was a statue of Caesar when several intoxicated paradegoers rounded on the angel for desecrating the image of the powerful leader.

He and his angel, two halves of a whole idiot. 

Crowley suspected that, between the two of them, they shared a single braincell that was constantly doing the Macarena and drinking ungodly amounts of vodka.

He glanced over at where the angel was padding along beside him, only to find the space next to him unoccupied.

“Angel?” Crowley whirled around, panicking. It was bad enough that they were lost in a Swedish furniture store; it would be unbearable if they lost _each_ _other _in a Swedish furniture store. “Angel!”

No reply.

“Aziraphale!” cried Crowley loudly, now in full red-alert mode. He was nowhere in sight. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale came rushing around a tall wardrobe, his eyes wide with alarm. “What is it?? What’s wrong?” he asked frantically.

The demon sighed with relief. He stared at Aziraphale through his sunglasses, and felt an embarrassed flush beginning on his cheeks as he realized how ridiculous he must seem. “Er, nothing, I…” His voice trailed off as he tried and failed to find a suitable excuse for his panic.

Aziraphale relaxed as he understood there was no danger. “Oh, Crowley,” he murmured. “You poor old thing. I’m sorry, my dear, I should have said something.”

Crowley blinked abashedly. 

The angel looked up at him and took his hand gently, to reassure the demon that everything was alright, and to prevent an accidental separation from occurring again, then lead him around the wardrobe.

“I had just seen a lovely little trinket for the shop, look,” he said, pointing to a ceramic sitting on a table.

It was a shiny black snake curled around a rock, and on the rock sat a little white and tawny owl with reading glasses on. The snake appeared to be sleeping, while the owl peered down at a book propped against the snake’s body.

Crowley looked at it for a moment, then rested his head on the angel’s shoulder. “It’s perfect,” he agreed.

Just then, Aziraphale saw something yellow moving out of the corner of his eye. “Excuse me!” he called, prompting Crowley to pick up his head and turn to see what was going on. 

“Yeah?” A young woman with short brunette hair and blue eyes peering out from behind black glasses approached at Aziraphale’s call. She was an IKEA employee.

“Terribly sorry to bother you, but could you direct us to the exit?” Aziraphale asked, hopefully.

“Sure, it’s just down that way.” The woman pointed, then asked if there was anything else she could help with.

* * *

A few hours later, the two of them sat on a brand new sofa in the bookshop, cuddled around each other, and admiring a new ceramic figurine set on a bookshelf in plain view of everyone who entered the shop.


End file.
